James
by Lestrudel S
Summary: James is the adoptive son of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.He is given his first case at 15, by Sherlock, although when tragedy strikes his family James is faced with a case far more important, and he is the only one who can uncover the truth. He is in constant danger, even under Mycroft's watch; his protection can only go so far...
1. Chapter 1- Hamish

** Sherlock fanfiction chapter 1**

James Watson-Holmes grew up with a sociopathic father who had faked his death after the man he was named for falsely exposed him as a fake. James didn't know why he was named after Moriarty because when he asked his father, he was told not to talk because he was lowering the IQ of the whole street. Shortly afterwards, his other Father would laugh and mention someone called Anderson.  
Most of the people at James' school knew that his adoptive parents were a gay couple, but no one laughed about it. Everyone was scared of James. The first person who laughed at him had also been the last. James didn't like to talk about what had happened.  
When James turned 15, he decided to pay his older brother Hamish a visit. Hamish was working as an MI6 spy, and kept close to their uncle Mycroft. Their father referred to Mycroft as the British Government, mainly because he was more influential than the Prime Minister. Hamish had inherited more of Mycroft's character that their Father's and the two brothers hadn't spoken to each other in three years.  
James sat in their arranged meeting place: the cafe underneath 221b baker street. He had ordered his brother a coffee which he knew he wouldn't drink. Hamish had never accepted gifts from James, not even the smallest ones.  
James waited. Hamish was five minutes late, which was odd, because Hamish had always been punctual. Like Mycroft.  
Ten minutes had passed, and James began to wonder whether Hamish was coming. He drank Hamish's coffee for him as he had finished his own. Fifteen minutes had come and gone and James was pretty sure Hamish wasn't coming. He was just about to leave when one of the waiters passed him a note saying 'get into the taxi'. James half expected this; Hamish was becoming too similar to Mycroft.  
James left the cafe and got into the taxi without a word. He didn't know where he was going but he used the skills he had inherited from his Father to pass the time; the car windows were mostly clean but grimey at the edges, indicating that the car was old but well maintained. He could see the back of the driver's head; short, blonde hair. He was probably quite young. As he expected, the taxi was otherwise empty. The windows weren't blacked out but they were going through a tunnel so he couldn't see where they were going. They eventually emerged outside of a bleak building. Upon their arrival the driver lead him to a room, and after opening the door, walked away. James walked into the room. It was filled with antique furniture, including an old desk. Hamish sat behind it.

"sit" said Hamish.  
James looked at him, walked up to the chair, and stood behind it.  
"I said, sit."  
"No" said James "I don't want to."  
"Don't make me force you." Hamish replied harshly. James sat reluctantly in the chair but slouched in it.  
"For God's sake, James, you're in a meeting with the head of MI6. Can't you take this seriously?"  
James smiled. "I'm in a meeting with my brother." Hamish sighed. "What are you even here for?"  
"I want to know why I'm called James." He said.  
"After James Moriarty. I'm sure you've been told that."  
"But why? Father should have hated him"  
"Father was hated by a lot of people. It's only right that he should get to choose who he hates"  
"Why can't you just tell me instead of being cryptic? I know that you know, or if you don't know, you can find out"  
"Finding out this kind of thing would involve divulging secrets to you, if anyone found out, I could lose my posi-"  
"You won't lose your position. You have Mycroft's protection."  
"Mycroft's protection only goes so far."  
James was getting bored. He usually tried not to use his skills, which was more than his Father could say, but he could feel himself losing control.  
"You're just like Mycroft."  
"James, let's not do this-"  
"You value power and position over what's right. You know anyway, at least part of it."  
"James, please-"  
"I'm not going to waste my breath explaining how I know. If you were closer to Father you would know anyway. You're hiding something to protect Mycroft. Something Mycroft did that harmed Father, Father thinks it was someone else-" James realized what had happened as he said it.  
"Mycroft leaked information about Sherlock to Moriarty" Hamish said, continuing James's trail of thought. "Father found out eventually though. That's why he called you James. To remind Mycroft of what he did."  
James didn't know what to say, so he said something that would annoy Hamish.  
"Why did you call Father Sherlock?"  
Hamish looked at James angrily.  
"For once in your life you have nothing to say so you use the time to question me. Leave. Go. Leave. Now. You don't even care about what I said."  
John stood up slowly. He looked at Hamish and smiled, satisfied. "Next time, come to the cafe. Although it's probably a security risk for you to drink coffee. Better not."  
"You're just like Sherlock"  
"Is that such a bad thing?"  
"No, unless you _want _to be a sociopath"


	2. Chapter 2- the first case

**1** of **780**

James walked in through the front door of his house. It was a nice house; large, with antique furnishings. Mycroft's style. But then, Mycroft had practically paid for it.  
He heard his Father -Sherlock- on the phone. It sounded like he was talking to Lestrade, because his Father wasn't saying a lot except 'obviously'. He finally said OK, and hung up promptly without saying goodbye. That was typical. He only said goodbye to James, Hamish- on the occasions that he called- and their sister Harriet. Harriet was thirteen, fourteen in a month or so. She and James weren't close, but they were a lot closer than he and Hamish had been.

James walked through to the kitchen to get a drink of something. He opened the cupboard to get a glass, and was met by a cascade of Petri dishes. His other Father- John- said that this had happened to him more times than he could count. Their house was a tip, really. James's parents were anything but OCD. The only reason anyone could move was because of Mrs. Hudson's visits -still claiming that she wasn't their housekeeper-and Harriet's occasional clean.  
James had never met anyone more brilliant than Harriet- she was extremely intelligent, so much so that she had solved cases where their detective father had faulted. There was a job waiting for her at Scotland yard to claim the day she left school. Their Father was extremely proud- which was an amazing accomplish for her, with him being a sociopath. James scooped up the petri dishes with both arms, shoved them in the cupboard, and shut it before the dishes could fall out again. He decided not to get a drink; he didn't want to risk being hit by anything heavier.  
He walked into the living room, where his father was sprawled out on the sofa.  
"Interesting case?"  
"no" his father replied, his voice muffled by a cushion.  
His father sat up and looked at him.  
"I want you to solve it for me"  
"If you can't be bothered with something Lestrade has been begging you to do, ask Harriet. They love her. She's consulting detective V2"  
"Let me rephrase this- I want to see what you can do. Solve the case."  
"What's in it for me?" Said James, as he flopped onto the nearest chair.  
"What do you want?"  
"I dunno yet"  
"Yes you do"  
"No, I don't"  
His father sighed.  
"Please. I know you can."  
"Ugh. Fine. I'll go and see Lestrade tomorrow. Can you at least tell me some details?"  
"It's a murder."  
"That's all you're telling me?"  
"That's all you need to know, until tomorrow"  
James sighed. Why did Father have to be so cryptic? Never a straight answer. Never a _full_ answer.  
"I can't believe I'm agreeing to this. I'm wasting my summer holidays solving a murder when I really should be revising for my GCSE's. Or partying. Or going out with friends, like any normal teenage boy."  
"Why be normal? Normal is boring"  
They both smiled. Although they rarely connected, when they did, James felt like the mirror image of his Father.

That night, James had trouble sleeping. There was the underlying excitement of his first case, but there were also the thoughts of what Hamish has said to him. Why did his father want to hurt his brother, who had bought him a house, gave him money for his children's school fees, given his eldest son such a high profile job? he had leaked information to his father's nemesis, yes, but they were still brothers. Mycroft has done so much for James's family, for _him, _when he really thought about it. Extravagant gifts. University funding for when he left school. Anything he needed, really, that his parent's couldn't supply. But Hamish had always been Mycroft's favourite.

When he finally slept, James dreamed that he and Hamish were fighting over a black umbrella. Eventually, Mycroft appeared and pushed him away from Hamish. They must have been standing on some kind of platform; he felt a falling sensation. The ground he was falling to was black, like everything around him. He kept falling. Faster, faster-

James sat up and flailed around wildly. He realized that he was awake; his dream- nightmare- was over. He looked over to his alarm clock: 07:00 AM. He pushed the hair back from his face- it was covering his eyes- and basically fell out of bed. He crawled along the floor and out onto the landing.

"Would you mind telling me exactly what you're doing? I heard a thud. Ah, you fell out of bed. Have a nightmare? I can see the shock in your eyes. It must have been a falling nightmare, your hands are shaking, the adrenaline wearing off-"

"Okay, I get the idea!" James said, interrupting Harriet. He hauled himself up and walked downstairs. His genius sister was an idiot sometimes.  
James gingerly opened a cupboard; no flying experiments. He dug out a box of Cheerios and looked inside. Moldy. How on earth do you get Cheerios to grow mould?!  
James would usually skip breakfast after seeing that; instead, he dug out a packet of slightly stale Oreos and ate most of them. Not exactly healthy, but a lot healthier than those Cheerios.  
He showered shortly afterwards and, after towel-drying his hair, 'borrowed' one of his Father's more casual suits. It nearly fitted him; they were about the same height, and basically the same build, as they both hardly ate.  
He looked in the mirror. He looked nothing like his parents, obviously, but he had adopted the hairstyle his detective Father used to have, his mousy blonde hair falling around his face in natural waves. He had light blue eyes, which he thought were his best feature. Piercing, as he would describe them. He was intelligent, more so than was normal for his age, but not nearly as clever as Harriet.

His doctor Father drove him to Scotland Yard. James would much rather have got the tube, but his father insisted he be driven there.  
"You look so smart" he said, smiling proudly. "When I was running around Scotland Yard, it was in a jumper and jeans! But Sherlock always wore suits. ALWAYS. Unless he was going to Buckingham palace, of course, then he would be wearing a bed sheet!"  
They both laughed. James had heard this story a lot. "Mycroft was so angry. I almost choked trying not to laugh!"  
James's smile widened. Half an hour ago, he had been so incredibly nervous. Now, he had completely forgotten his nerves. As they pulled up outside of Scotland Yard, his Father beamed at him. "Good luck. And say hi to Anderson for me!"  
James returned the smile as he got out of the car. He jogged up the stairs and through the doors, when he heard the world's most beautiful sound.  
"_Holmes_" Anderson sneered. "Shouldn't you be in school, you silly boy?"  
"It's_ Holmes-Watson_, and it's the summer holidays, so no."  
"Where's your father, anyway? He shouldn't be letting you run around on your own, children get in the way of work"  
"Yeah, so do imbeciles. Have a nice day, Anderson, but please don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole building"  
James smiled ironically, and swiftly walked away, leaving a stuttering Anderson in the middle of the hallway.


	3. Chapter 3- James's uncle

James was sitting in a conference room with Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade and other 'key' members of the investigation team. Everyone accepted that Lestrade and James were the only key members; well, everyone except maybe Anderson.  
James sat holding a pen and notepad he most likely wouldn't use. Lestrade was talking, but James had absorbed all the information that he really needed to know- where the crime scene was, the victim's name, when they were last seen and who by. He jotted it down out of boredom, then started tapping the pen on the desk. Anderson looked over angrily at James, who smiled ironically again.  
"James Holmes, if you wouldn't mind behaving like an _adult_ for an hour or so-"  
"Yes, sorry, of course" James interrupted.  
As Lestrade continued, Anderson smiled smugly at him.  
_It's not worth it, James_ he told himself. _Just leave it_.  
As he sat and seethed quietly, James's thoughts drifted back to the day before. He wanted to know more about Moriarty...  
James forced the thoughts out of his head. He needed an excuse to get out of the conference. He remembered that he had his mobile phone with him. He pulled it out of his pocket without attracting too much attention.  
Who to text? This was a harder than when he needed to get out of a lesson at school; he would just text his Father-Sherlock, that is- but in this situation he would be totally hypocritical and tell him to stay in the conference. He couldn't text his other father; same reaction, except not hypocritical. Harriet? She wouldn't understand. Would it matter? The only feesible contacts left were Mycroft and Hamish.  
James clicked on Harriet's icon. He sent her a text saying _call me_. About thirty seconds later, he recieved a text asking why. He replied with _doesn't matter! Just call!_  
James waited for Harriet's call; he didn't have to wait very long, she had called within a minute.  
Everyone stared at him as his phone rang. He feigned embarassment.  
"I need to take this, sorry, can I just...?"  
Lestrade rolled his eyes.  
"Fine" he snapped. "Hurry up, though."  
James walked out of the conference room, beaming.  
"Thanks! I could have died in there. Anderson is such an idiot, I swear I could k-"  
"You owe me" Harriet cut in.  
"Yeah, I know. Thanks, by-"  
Harriet had hung up.  
James, smiling, put the contents of his notepad into the notes on his phone, and threw the pad behind him. He decided to grab some lunch before heading to the crime scene, as no-one else team would be there for about half an hour.  
He walked to the nearest café, which killed some time, and ordered some tea and a cheese and ham samwidge; a slight improvement on his brekfast, though ne very nearly dropped it when he saw the person sitting at the table in the left corner.

The smiling face of Mycroft Holmes was visible, rising from the newspaper. James slowly walked towards the tabe and sat down in front of Mycroft.  
"James my dear boy, how lovely to see you? What has it been, two, three years?"  
"Why are you here?" said James, narrowing his eyes  
"You do take after Sherlock. Not quite a sociopath, though, and you wouldn't yet call Hamish your archenemy."  
He chuckled at the quizical expression on James's face.  
"I asked you a question, _Uncle_."  
Mycroft's smile faded. "I came, James, because you have questions that I can answer."  
"I don't think you do. I know who leaked information to Moriarty. You, by the way, in case you thought I was bluffing. Hamish knows. Did you tell him, or is he more like Sherlock than you like to think?"  
Mycroft said nothing, just stared at him.  
"I don't want information from you. Who knows which lives it will destroy?"  
James stood up and began to walk away.  
"I also came to offer you some advice. Don't be like Sherlock."  
"What makes sure I'm not already?" James said, smiling. "Goodbye, Mycroft. I'll see you soon...or not"  
He walked out of the café, playing God Save The Queen on his mobile.

An hour later, James was kneeling next to a dead body, with Lestrade standing over him and Anderson watching from the landing of the house-turn-crimescene.  
"I didn't know you were so facinated by me, Anderson."  
"You're a psycho-"  
"-path, just like your father. That's what you were going to say, am I correct?"  
"No, actually, I to sa-"  
"Anderson, no"  
Anderson, frowning, went to collect evidence from another room.  
James already vaguely knew who killed her, when, how and possibly why.  
"You know something." said Lestrade.  
"You should probably tell me now."  
"In murders it is usually someone who knows the is the killer; lets start there. She's married, happily, the ring damaged but clean, meaning she cleans it fairly regularly. She was most likely happily married, so her husband probably didn't kill her. Children? She has some, but they probably wouldn't have killed her, they would be about fourteen or under-"  
"I've lost you" said Lestrade.  
"The bag she had with her contained a library book with a 'Junior' sticker on it. She certainly wouldn't be reading it, which means she has at least one child who is about 14 at the oldest."  
Lestrade nodded.  
"Looks like she was poisoned- there's a rash all over her face and hands. Allergic reaction...unless her death was an accident, which is very unlikely. The killer definitely knew her. They must have known her well to know what she would react fatally to..."  
James looked at Lestrade. "she was last seen by her brother..." he stood up and walked out of the room.  
"Where are you going?" Lestrade called after him.  
"visiting the brother" James replied shortly. He knew his father use to do this kind of thing- he wanted to seem as much like his father as possible, so they would trust him to a certain extent. By 'they', he meant Lestrade, as only Lestrade trusted Sherlock anyway. He didn't want to come across as arrogant, though. That was the only part of his father's character he didn't want to mirror.


	4. Chapter 4- Confusion

_Where are you?- SH_  
_Back of a taxi. Away to visit the brother - JH_  
_It wasn't him. You're wasting your time. -SH_  
_Need to be sure. -JH_  
_WASTING YOUR TIME. -SH_  
James set his phone to vibrate, and ignored the periodical buzzes. As the car slowed, his phone blasted out his father's ringtone.  
"what?"  
"It wasn't the bro-"  
"You haven't even been to the crime scene!"  
"I don't need to. It wasn't him."  
"I'm going to hang up now."  
"Ja-"  
James slided his phone back into his pocket with a sigh. He felt it vibrate, and had a sudden urge to throw the thing at the nearest wall.  
He hated his father sometimes. First, he sent James pointlessly on a case; second, he questions his methods; third he badgers him about_ NOT_ interviewing his strongest lead. What next?  
James's phone began to ring again. He had to try very hard not to crush the iPhone in his hand.  
"what is it now?!"  
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be questioning you. It's your first case, you're going to make mista-"  
"This isn't a mistake. It's the only lead I have. And as you say, when the impossible is ruled out-"  
"Whatever is left, however improbable, must be true. Yes, I do say that. But you don't have to waste time and energy confirming what you know already to be true."  
James frowned. That's what his father_ always_ did- test theories, do experiments. He also had no care for how much time or energy it would take to make his theory fact.  
"I've got to go. I'm outside the house."  
"James, please-"  
"Bye, Dad"  
"Bye...good luck"  
James was in shock; not only had his father apologized, but he had also said please, and good luck. James was also being tricked, for whatever reasons that his father had. Apart from the latter statement, something was extremely wrong.  
He considered going home; but then that was what his father wanted as an end result. It could be scare tactics; it could be a serious problem. James eventually decided to go and interview the victim's brother; if he came all this way to do nothing, THAT would be a waste of time and energy. There was something seriously lacking in his father's reasoning that day.

He knocked on the door what was meant to be three times- he was interrupted half way through by a 'GO AWAY'.  
"Mr. Riley, this is the-" James hesitated "police. I want to ask you some questions about your sister."  
"I don't want to talk about her. Leave me alone"  
"Mr. Riley, please. I understand that you are very distressed, but if you don't open the door, I will have no qualms as to breaking it down."  
He heard footsteps, a thud, the sound of a man picking himself up from the floor, followed by more footsteps. When the door was finally opened, James was met by a pungent smell of alcohol.  
"Who" he belched "are you?"  
James, not sure what to say to gain the man's trust, said "Detective Holmes".  
"Holmes? Like Sherlock Holmes?"  
James smiled falsely. "I'm a relative."It was just as well the man was drunk; he would- or should- have been skeptical about this story, although it was true.

"As I had mentioned, there are some questions I would like to ask you in regard to your sister's..." how to broach the subject?"...passing. However, I see that you are in no fit state to co-operate at the present" said James, writing down his number on a scrap of paper. "Please, call me when you are feeling better." James feigned another smile as he handed over the note. He walked away without waiting for any kind of farewell from the man, and with complete certainty that he would never hear from him.  
He decided to get the tube home, because he didn't want to rush home to his father. However, while walking to the station, a suspiciously Mycroft-looking limousine pulled up next to him. Winding down the window, Mycroft said 'get in'. James was suprised Mycroft had came personally, but that meant he couldn't refuse the offer. He got in without saying anything.  
"Hello, James" said Mycroft, smiling.  
"Hello"  
This was probably Mycroft's attempt at making casual conversation. It wasn't working. After a few minutes of awkward silence, James said "Why are you visiting my parents?"  
"Why do you presume that I am? I'm only here to see you"  
"You always have an ulterior motive."  
Mycroft sighed. "I need to see Sherlock about Hamish. The situation is not good...I would rather not talk about it in front of children, you and Harriet-"  
"I'm fifteen, and Harriet can handle anything, even if she is only thirteen."  
"Still, I...the situation is grave."  
"If you don't tell us, Harriet will work it out and tell me. I'm not stupid, and she's a genius."  
"You always value yourself below Harriet but you don't resent her. Why is that?"  
"Because she's got one of the highest IQ's in the country. By the time she's my age, she'll be twice as intelligent as your brother. I'm more clever than most fifteen-year-olds but I'll never be a detective or a scientist at the same level as her. But anyway, you've changed the subject. I would ask to return to it, but since we're nearly at my house it won't be necessary as you are going to tell me what has happened to Hamish anyway."  
Mycroft sighed. They drove the rest of the way in silence, as he couldn't think of another way to start a light conversation when there were pressing matters- and James knew they were pressing. Hamish was family, no matter how far apart they had drifted. He tried not to seem to anxious, to keep up his appearence of looking like his father, although he didn't know how he would react. He resigned to drumming his fingers on his knee, hoping he would look more impatient that worried.

Ten minutes later, the driver pulled up outside of James's house, just as it was starting to rain. He stepped out of the limo, holding the door for Mycroft without thanks. James walked ahead of Mycroft as the door would be locked- as always- and pulled his set of keys out of his pocket. As he unlocked the door, Mycroft said  
"I think I should take the opportunity to...to apologize. I won't get an apology in later, when I'm speaking to Sherlock."  
James wasn't sure what to say. Mycroft was right to apologise, though there was so much more he should be apologising for. Maybe everything he had given to his father, to him, was a way of apology.  
"I'll accept your apology based on the situation." He said finally. Mycroft didn't reply. Walking through the front door, James felt a sense of dread at what he was about to hear; he was sure Mycroft felt it too, and worse, because he would have to say it.


	5. Chapter 5- devastating news

"I...I'm not sure how to say this..."  
Harriet and Mycroft's brother sat alert, James's other father tense. James watched Mycroft intensley; he wanted, yet did not want, to know what had caused Mycroft to apologise. Mycroft's apologies fell in between James's father's, which were once in a blue moon.  
"I...Hamish...he..."  
James thought he saw a tear glisten in Mycroft's eye; probably the light.  
"Hamish...Hamish is dead. He was taken out by a sniper at some point this afternoon- we have no idea which country the spy was from, if he was a spy; I supose it could have been a paid assasin but that is less likey...I am so sorry, I-"  
"When he went to take the job three years ago, you promised that you would keep him _safe_, that exactly _this_ would never happen"  
Said James's father. Mycroft looked at his brother. "Sherlock, I-"  
"MY SON IS DEAD. NOTHING YOU SAY WILL BRING HIM BACK AND IT'S YOUR FAULT BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T PROTECT HIM" his father yelled at Mycroft. "You will never understand my pain. _Never_."  
"Sherlock, I...I understand, at times I felt as though Hamish was my son too and I-"  
"He trusted you!" James found himself shouting at his Uncle. "He trusted you and you didn't protect him. Now he's dead. It's your fault. I wouldn't accept your apology in a million years, you complete idiot. You..."  
James was crying by the end of his statement. He was only 15, and his brother was dead. He only saw him the day before...he didn't have any worries. He was happy... and James couldn't see why anyone would want to kill him, though they had never seen eye to eye; he was already regretting that...  
His father, John, had started to ask the sensible questions; where the body was, what measures were being taken to track down his son's killer, when- if at all- the general public would know.  
"The death- rather murder- of the leader of MI6 or an organisation like it could mean war...the consequences will be grave for the country this spy is from..."  
"And you don't yet know which country"  
Said Harriet, who hadn't spoken otherwise. Rational, sensible Harriet, who had inherited twice their father's talents and their other father's level head and bravery. James wasn't sure if ge had any of either, based on that day's work and his reaction to the news. He felt like a complete failiure. Worse than a failiure. An Anderson. And his brother was dead...  
James walked out of the room and ran up the stairs to his bedroom. He wanted to cry, more than he had already; instead of tears he felt numbness. He was cold...so cold...  
He crawled under the covers of his bed, still in the suit, which he would proably keep. Suprising himself, James fell asleep.

He dreamt of Hamish. They were both standing in a white room; James couldn't move his legs, as though they were glued to the floor.  
"Hamish" he said. "Hamish!" his brother couldn't hear him. Or see him.  
James knew what was coming next. "No! No, please!"  
A bullet came from nowhere; it was in slow motion, which was why James could see it, but he couldn't trace the shooter.  
"Hamish! Hamish!"  
He realised that he was behind glass, and it must be soundproofed and one-way.  
"HAMISH! HAMISH, NO!"  
He yelled, frantically pounding on the glass as the bullet neared his older brother.  
"HAMISH!" He screamed, hurling himself against the glass, sobbing. "HAMISH! PLEASE! NO! YOU CAN'T DIE! HAMISH!  
The bullet hit his brother; James sank to his knees, sobbing uncontrolably. Without warning, he woke.

James was trembling, soaked in his own sweat, with tear tracks down his cheeks. It was 5:00 am, but he got up anyway. He wasn't going to get any more sleep after watching his brother die. After getting out of bed, he heard his father playing the violin. You could only hear it faintley from upstairs, not loud enough to be woken by. James walked downstairs on silent feet, feeling rather than looking at the stairs as it was pitch black. When he reached the living room, he looked through the open door and watched his father playing his violin in the dim light. James didn't play any instruments and had no idea what his father was playing, but he knew it was perfect. It was also sad. Mournful. Apparently it helped his father to think; James thought it helped his father _not_ to think, just like nicotine patches and drugs. Watching him, James realized that no matter what he felt, it was ten times worse for his father; he had lost his son. This was probably the first time he had felt _anything _in years; he was still a sociopath, even though he had been a loving father to three children. One of them was dead. James knew how he felt, but was sure he would- could- never experience it.  
His father stopped his bow unexpectedly. James couldn't see it in the low light, but there were tears rolling down his cheeks.  
"I..." James began, but he didn't know what to say. His father looked at him; he looked back. They stayed like that for about a minute; his father eventually said  
"Since you've been trying to seem so much like me, you'll want to continue your investigations." he smiled weakly. "I got you a suit of your own"he said, pointing towards a small box with his bow.  
"They won't miss me if I don't go" said James. "The case is simple. Anderson could solve it, if you gave him a while"  
"If you put monkeys in a room with typewriters, eventually they will write the complete works of Shakespeare. The theory applies. They need you to make quicker connections; it takes you five minutes to work out something, when it would take Anderson or even Lestrade five days" replied his father. "besides, the work would help, keep you busy. It would help me, but I don't have a case at the minute"  
"You could have taken this case, but then the police only contact you when they're out of their depth, which means that this case was for me and you had some sort of agreement with Lestrade that he would _find_ a case for me"  
His father smiled.  
"Well done"  
"Well, it wasn't hard to work out" James said, smiling back


	6. Chapter 6- housebreaking

Nobody had said anything about Hamish's death before James left the house. It seemed, in his family, the best way to deal with something like this was _not_ to deal with it. For some reason this annoyed James- didn't Hamish _deserve_ to be talked about? But then everything annoyed James.

James was about to get a get a taxi to the brother's house when he realised it was only 9:00 AM and he would do best not to wake his suspect up if he was asleep. He went to Scotland Yard instead to see if there was any more information he could gather- hopefully _without_ getting pulled into a conference or bumping into Anderson. That was unlikely; Anderson would track him down.  
James decided risking a confrontation to speak to Lestrade about his brother; if his father confided in him occaisionally, so should he. Besides, he couldn't talk to any of his school friends, that would be a surefire way to announce Hamish's death to the world before Mycroft had a chance to deal with it properly. Lestrade was the only person he could talk to besides his family, who just _didn't talk_.

Half an hour later, James was sitting in Lestrade's office with a brandy -even though he was under age- having told him what had happened. James had cried a bit at first, but he was feeling numb again. Lestrade had been fairly good at comforting him, given that they barely knew eachother, really. It had taken some explaining; Lestrade, although intelligent, didn't have the Holmes mindset, which slowed his connections considerably.  
"But...won't that mean war?" said Lestrade. He was shocked that something like this could happen. So had James been at first.  
"Mycroft said it could...which means it probably will. Open warfare...maybe not... it's more likely that one country will be nuked that one invaded. Nobody knows which country the spy is from...yet...my Dad will probably work it out before intelligence discovers it."  
"And you don't think it was a terrorist? I mean, they would target authority figures, wouldn't they?"  
"Why go for Hamish when you could go for the Prime Minister? That would cause hysteria, when there's no guarantee that the world will ever know about Hamish's death."  
"England doesn't have enenies that we know of...you should ask Mycroft."  
"He wouldn't tell me"  
"He might. Hamish would have known"  
"Hamish was the head of MI6. I'm a teenager"  
Lestrade said nothing for a few minutes.  
"It sounds like you blame Mycroft for this"  
"I do. He promised he would protect Hamish"  
"His protection could only go so far. Hamish was the head of _MI6_"  
Lestrade was right. Mycroft didn't deserve all of the blame; he deserved some of it, because he had promised his parents that Hamish would be safe- that didn't mean Hamish's death was his fault, although ultimately it was a promise he couldn't keep. After all, Hamish had said the same as Lestrade- _Mycroft's protection could only go so far_.  
"I- you're...you're right" said James. "Thanks, I needed...someone to talk to...thanks for the brandy as well-"  
"You didn't drink it!" said Lestrade, smiling.  
"Under age" said James, smiling back. "I have work to do, anyway, and I don't want to get you in trouble"  
Lestrade's smile faded a little.  
"You can't be thinking about carrying on with the case after this. No offence, but we can handle it- although I think you already know that"  
"I did; I think the case will help...keep my mind off of it"  
Lestrade smiled, again. "You have all your father's talent and half of his arrogance. Plus, you're not a sociopath,.which is nice. There's a job here for you, if you want it"  
"There's one for Harriet too. You'd rathe have her, trust me"  
"Actually, I'd rather have both of you. Think about it, at least"  
"Thanks for the offer" James said. He hoped his answer didn't sound conclusive, because he genuinely would consider it. He just couldn't at that point in time, for obvious reasons.

Before he left, James went to the toilets. He didn't recognise himself in the mirror. He looked tired, but apart from that, stunning- the suit, exactly the right shade of grey, was cut perfectly. The colour stood out against his hair and eyes, making them twice as attractive. It in no way reflected how he felt- emotional turmoil was not nice to look at, so it was just as well it didn't.

He left the toilets, and within an hour, was standing outside of his suspect's house. James was extremely grateful that he hadn't ran into Anderson; he really didn't think he could take another insult war.  
He knocked on the door of the house three times and waited. No reply. He knocked again thirty seconds later- no reply. James decided that the man was out. Should he risk picking the lock? There was no-one around to see him...  
He took the hair grip out of his pocket; he had stole it from Harriet's room earlier that morning. She wouldn't mind. Hopefully.

He bent the grip back so that it was a rod rather than hairpin-shaped. He pushed it into the lock.  
He had saw his father do this, once, when he was about eight, because they had locked themselves out of the house. Instead of shouting on their other father, Harriet or Hamish to open the door, he picked the lock with a hair grip. When James asked why, his father said that he would need to know how to do this one day. It was just as well he had forgotten his keys, or James wouldn't have found himself housebreaking. It was for evidence, he could say. He wouldn't get in trouble with the real police...hopefully.

James heard the lock click. He pushed the door open slowly and crept into the house, feeling terrible. But he shouldn't really; this man was probably a murderer. He walked through to the living room of the house having decided to start an evidence search there, and was shocked to see the man standing next to the window. He must have recognized James immediately; he hurled himself out of the window. James, realizing that he had no other option, covered his face with his arms and threw himself out of the window after the man. He hit the ground hard and rolled. His face and hands weren't deeply cut, and the suit had protected the rest of his body when it came to the glass. His side hurt where he had hit the ground, but James ignored it as he picked himself up and sprinted after his suspect. He tripped up almost as soon as he started to run, but didn't fall, so he sprinted on again. His suspect was faster than James had expected and he was finding it hard to keep up, never mind catch up. The man sprinted into a forest; if James could spare the air to sigh, he would have. He was crap at sports in general, running in particular. He was alright at swimming, though. Was a lake too much to wish for?

The suspect seemed to know where he was going, following a barely worn path along the forest floor. He often had to pull at branches to continue on the path, so James was glad he wasn't close behind the suspect because he would be continually hit in the face with branches. The thorns and nettles pulled at the skin on his hands as he in turn had to push away the branches but he barely noticed, his expression determined.

The man took an unexpected dive off the path; James could see that they were high up on a bank. He hesitated only a second before hurling himself after the man, praying that his indestructible suit would protect him as he plummeted down the bank. He fell to to ground, rolling rapidly and hoping desperately that he wouldn't encounter a tree on his way down. He crashed through a bush at the bottom of the bank, which meant he didn't hit the gravel of the next path face-first like the suspect, who showed no signs of serious injury and immediately got up and sprinted off. James was already up; the gap was closing. The man hit a cyclist, which slowed him down considerably. There was maybe fifteen meters between them.

The suspect raced on. James felt adrenaline coursing through his veins as he sprinted towards the murderer, his feet pounding harder and faster than they had in his whole life.  
The path cut off at the end to reveal a terrifying drop of at least thirty meters; it continued after a huge leap to the other side. James saw the man hesitate before leaping; he barely made it, clinging on to the dirt wall with his finger tips and struggled to haul himself up. James was considerably taller, which meant he had a greater chance of making the jump. He pushed off the ground with his right foot, the stronger, flying through the air. The world seemed to be in slow motion as he leaped, and he couldn't hear anything. Time sped up as he neared the ground, and his hearing returned to him as he hit the mud bank. The heavy landing sent shocks through his bones; he sprinted on none the less. Five meters. If he could just run a bit faster...  
Four meters. The man was slower because of the energy the jump had taken, and James was faster, pushed by adrenaline. Two meters. He half-jumped at half- rugby tackled the suspect, taking him down and pinning him to the ground. For want of a better way to restrain him, James sat on top of the man. Besides, he needed something to sit on after that.  
"Samuel Riley-" he panted "I am arresting you...on suspicion of murder...you do not have to...say anything...but anything you do say...I can't be...bothered...to do this... why couldn't you have...just let me...arrest you?!"  
"Didn't think you...would catch me"  
"Oh well...that was a...mistake"  
"I've been arrested...by a kid...in a suit...for my sister's murder...this is such...a weird day"  
James laughed weakly. He called Lestrade with shaking hands to tell him what had happened. He said he would be there in ten minutes; it was closer to an hour by the time he arrived.

James, exhausted, took a taxi home.


	7. Chapter 7- facing Mycroft

_Sorry that this chapter is so short; the next one will be longer, I promise :)_

James was exhausted. All he wanted in the world was a shower, pajamas and a mug of tea. He just wanted to go home, basically. But no.  
_ get into the taxi nearest you. Urgent. MH_  
James reluctantly got into the taxi. He hadn't even worked out what to say to Mycroft about his recent epiphany. An apology first, obviously. But what after that?  
James tried not to think about it and attempted to relax, while he could.  
It looked like they were going to the same place as last time, so James didn't bother trying to work out where he was.  
He really wished he could go home and change into something else before meeting Mycroft; there were multiple rips and tears in the shirt, the stitching at the right shoulder of his blazer was coming away, and the trousers and shoes were covered in mud. His hair was a mess, his face was red, and he looked like he was about to collapse at any moment. He felt like it, too. Although he was exhausted, James felt satisfied with himself- he had caught his suspect, handed him over to Lestrade. He didn't know if or when he would experience that kind of elation. Maybe he should take Lestrade's offer when he left school...

The car pulled up outside of the same bleak building, which must have been some kind of MI6 bunker. It was really quite secure; card locks on every door, re-inforced walls that could take an explosion and come out of it relatively intact.  
The chauffeur lead James to an office-type room similar to Hamish's- and after unlocking the door, pushed it open for him. James walked in to find Mycroft sitting behind a desk with his hands in his head. He looked up.  
"James" he said sorrowfully. "I wasn't sure you would come"  
"You said it was urgent; besides, I owe you an apology" James took a deep breath and hesitated; he had no idea what to say, how to say it, or exactly _why_ he was saying it, since he wanted to seem like his father. Because it was moral. Because it was the right thing to do.  
"I...I shouldn't have blamed you for Hamish's death. It wasn't- it's not- your fault. Your protection...could only go so far, but it may well have prolonged his life, so I should thank you as well as apologize" he found himself saying. He could only hope it sounded sincere to Mycroft.  
There was a long pause; they both stayed still and silent.  
"I knew you would realize that eventually"  
Mycroft said eventually. "Please, sit down"  
James sat down in a plush armchair that was positioned opposite to Mycroft, who looked at him quizzically.  
"What happened to you?" he said, looking at James's ruined suit. He briefly told Mycroft what had happened.  
"It sounds like you had a difficult time catching him"  
"I did"  
"Well, well done"  
There was a brief silence.  
"We need to find out which country the spy is from. We still have no idea" said Mycroft, changing the topic.  
"I would ask Sherlock, but I'm not sure that he will ever forgive me for what has happened...could you- rather, would you- help me...help me find out who did this?"  
James looked away from Mycroft and to the floor; how should he respond? Solving this case would make him famous- he would be a world renowned detective, be consulted on the most high-profile cases. This would _make him_. If he failed, he would most likely resign himself to Lestrade's job offer, which was still good. He didn't want to fail, but then what was life without risk?  
"Of course" he said, smiling. "When should I start my work?"  
"When can you? This is an issue of vital importance"  
"Tomorrow"  
Mycroft nodded; he looked relieved.  
"Of course, if you succeed, there is a job here for you in intelligence"  
"I'll consider it" James said, knowing that he wouldn't; he had found his calling. He would become the world's best detective, wether it was through this case or through Scotland Yard; he wouldn't rest until he had succeeded.


	8. Chapter 8- little sister

"Well, I promised you whatever you wanted for solving the case...what do you want?" asked James's father.  
James paused for a moment. Should he be asking for more? Less?  
"Answers" he said. "Firstly, why did you say that the brother wasn't the killer when he quite obviously was?"  
"I wanted to see if you were determined enough, and if you were independent of me enough to ignore me. Don't take that the wrong way; you need to be"  
James nodded. "Why did you name me after Moriarty?"  
His father smiled. "I knew you would ask that. I called you James because he was the only person I had met who wasn't _ordinary_"  
So now James knew the whole truth; he did it to remember how Moriarty had been as clever has him, but he had also done it to hurt Mycroft. He was hiding that...  
"One more thing" he said, smiling. "I'll be needing more suits"  
His father smiled back at him. "Another case?"  
"Yes; Mycroft needs me to work for him, tracking down Hamish's killer"  
"That's a big case. Huge!"  
"It'll make me famous!"  
His father sat and smiled at him; he was happy. Proud even. James was glad- he wasn't sure how he would react.  
"When do you start work?"  
"Tomorrow"  
"Excellent. Fantastic. I'll get a the suits ready; you _will_ need them- part detective, part MI6 spy!"  
James's father seemed almost human, complete with feelings. _Almost_. He never would be, but this was the closest he could come. He was drifting extremely far from his sociopathic tendencies.

An hour later, James was sitting in his sister's bedroom. They had never been close; he wanted to fix that. He was scared of loosing her, more than he thought he could be.  
"What happened, when we were little; I still haven't apologised for it properly-"  
"James, it was only three years ago. You were twelve. I was ten. We weren't _little_"  
"I guess- but look, I'm really sorry for what happened"  
"It was Hamish, not you"  
"I didn't defend you, I should have"  
"There was nothing you could have done. Besides, it didn't exactly ruin my life- I'm still at an amazing school"  
Amazing school...not as amazing as she deserved...

Three years ago, Harriet had been offered a scholarship to an exclusive boarding school; one of the best in the world. It was full of child geniuses, like Harriet. Amazing kids. The fees were extortionate, but it was nothing Mycroft couldn't pay for. Until Hamish persuaded him that he couldn't...  
"Hamish was always jealous" she said. "We were never close. What he did...I should have expected" she looked away. There was no way she should have expected that; she thought her brother loved her, and it was because of the age gap that they weren't close...  
James looked at his little sister. She was mature and intelligent far beyond her years, but still fragile. Unbearably so...  
He put his arm around her. "I will never, _ever_, let anyone hurt you again" he whispered. He thought of how Hamish had lied to Mycroft, telling him that it was illegal to pay her fees. Mycroft, like an idiot, believed his favorite nephew. When their father- John- found out, he was furious. Both his parents were, but more his doctor father. He wasn't a sociopath; he understood betrayal. He was even angrier when he discovered Hamish had faked a letter to the school declining a place. By the time his parents had tried to resolve the issue, Harriet's place was already filled...  
"I miss Hamish. Even after what he did. I...we were family. He was my brother. He's dead...I can't believe he's dead..." Harriet said. James felt hot tears on his shirt, even though his sister had given no other sign that she was crying.  
"I miss him too, Harry" he said. "I miss him too..."

So that night, they sat and cried together. James felt like they were making up for three years of practically ignoring each other; he hoped he was forgiven for ignoring her, too. His brilliant little sister deserved a brother she could look up to and rely on, and James promised himself he would be there for her. She was loved; her parents adored her and gave her all the support she needed; they were the same with James. But you can't talk to your parents about everything. James needed to be there for her. He should have been three years ago, that's why they weren't close.

After a long time, James broke the silence.  
"I'm sorry" he said, his voice cracking.  
"For what?"  
"I should have been there for you"  
"Don't worry about it- I was fine. I'm fine now. I'll always be fine. I sometimes wonder if I'm a sociopath too, because I wasn't feeling as bad as I should have"  
"You're not a sociopath. Sociopaths are self-absorbed"  
"Dad isn't self absorbed"  
"Well, he's a special kind of sociopath. Normal sociopaths can't play the violin or raise kids"  
"True" murmured Harriet into James's shirt. They had been sitting together for over three hours; James had pins and needles and he was exhausted, but he didn't want to leave his sister. Never again.

"Are you going to tell me about your chase or what?" said Harriet, smiling up at him. He smiled back, and described the scene animatedly to her, right up to the part where he was sitting on his suspect, which she laughed about.  
"I can't believe you sat on him!" she said, still laughing.  
"It was that or wrestle him. Or chase him again. I would definitely have lost him"  
"And it took Lestrade that long to find you?"  
"We were in the middle of the forest; he probably got lost a couple times"  
Harriet smiled up at James. "You must have felt like James Bond, running around in a suit, chasing criminals"  
"A bit. I did enjoy it" he admitted. "I'm working for MI6 now, I really will feel like James Bond"  
"Oh, I should have known! Mycroft hired you to find the spy that took out Hamish!"  
"Yes, although I don't know why. It would have been much more effective to hire you"  
"I'm too young to work for MI6. So are you, legally"  
"I suppose. If anyone asks, I could say I'm eighteen. That makes me an adult"  
Harriet laughed. For a while, neither of them spoke.

"James, can you promise me something?"  
"Anything"  
"Don't get killed"  
James looked at his sister, and for once, he didn't see a child genius; he saw a child. He couldn't guarantee that he could keep his promise, he would be in constant danger. It wasn't fair to lie to his sister, but he couldn't tell her the truth, although she probably knew anyway.  
"I promise" he said. Because it was easier. Because it would protect Harriet. Because he loved her. Because he wasn't sure he could face the truth himself


	9. Chapter 9- Smith

James looked in the mirror. His new suit- one of five, with the promise of more to come- was a fresh, pale green. It looked nice against his blonde hair, Harriet had said. She had asked him to try them all on- he did, to please her, and the green one was her favorite, so he wore it. They were so close now; James never wanted to go back to the way they were. He only wished he had made up with Hamish before he was killed. Maybe what he was doing would prove that he had cared, really...

He walked out of his room to see Harriet standing outside of his door.  
"You look so handsome" she said, smiling, evidently pleased with her choice. "I can't believe you don't have a girlfriend yet"  
"Who says I don't?" said James, slightly offended. Harriet laughed.  
"Don't take it the wrong way! You know that I work out these things without meaning to. I've constantly got information coming at me and I haven't worked out how to filter it yet"  
"Neither has Dad. Don't worry about it"  
She shrugged. She reached over and straightened his tie for him.  
"You are the best little sister _ever_" he said, bending down to hug her after she had finished with his tie "and I am so sorry for how I've treated you for the past three years"  
She hugged him back without a word, but James knew he was forgiven.  
Their parents were delighted that they had made up; John more than Sherlock, mainly because he wasn't a sociopath. They both cared about their children, though.

When James had to leave, Harriet hugged him again.  
"Remember what you promised me"  
"I'm not going to die, don't panic!"  
"Just...be careful. Please"  
"I will be"  
Pulling away from her, he said goodbye, and walked out of the door. Waiting for him was a black limousine; very stylish. Sleek. Professional. Professional? Maybe not. How many spies, he wondered, get driven to work in a limousine? Feeling pleased non the less, he got into the car. Mycroft was in there too; he must have buisness there, a conference, meeting, something like that. James realized that if it was anything to do with Hamish, he would be dragged into it too. He really couldn't get out of it this time. He sighed inwardly. Even if he was working as a part spy-part detective, he was only fifteen. A teenager. But he had to be professional. Mycroft, after some time in silence, said  
"You'll be set straight to work, however you plan to do that. Well, not _straight_ to work; there will be a debriefing, a conference to attend-" James fought back the urge to sigh "a meeting with some of the more important figures, including the new head. You're not _exactly_ like your father, so I'm sure I won't have to ask you not to insult anyone"  
James laughed. "I'll try not to. Anderson won't be there so it shouldn't be too hard"  
Mycroft smiled.  
"Have you got any ideas as to which country the spy was from?"  
"No" James admitted. "No description, no reports of sightings, no witnesses; I couldn't have"  
"They managed to capture an image; you haven't seen yet it as it's classified information, but you will be shown. I suppose you can at least make it a starting point?"  
"I suppose I can" said James. Did he sound like his father? He hoped he did. He needed to, to convince Mycroft that he could handle the case.  
"Unfortunately it is the only evidence we have, which is why we need someone from the infamous Holmes family- besides myself- to take the case"  
"Well, here I am"  
"Your powers of deduction will be vital. I am right to assume that they aren't affected by...recent events?"  
"You are right, although my sister's are far greater"  
"Harriet is too young to be a spy. Legally you are too, although you could easily pass for eighteen when you're in a suit"  
"Is that a compliment, Mycroft?" said James, teasing.  
"No, it's a fact, and a vital element in your employment"  
Employment? James wasn't being paid for this. The reward was a spot in MI6 that he wouldn't take.  
"I want paid, Mycroft" James stated. Mycroft wouldn't mind; he had money flowing from his pores.  
"How much?"  
"However much you think is...sufficient"  
Mycroft nodded.  
"What do you plan to spend it on?"  
"Whatever I think it would be best invested in; a house, a car, a wedding"  
"That's very mature for a teenager"  
"Well, I'll be keeping some of it to splash, of course. What fun would the money be if it was locked in a savings account for twenty years?"  
Mycroft murmured something; obviously he didn't agree. What was Mycroft's idea of fun anyway? James's father's was a serial killing. Maybe Mycroft's was a national crisis?  
Their car stopped. James stepped out first, his uncle shortly afterwards.  
He was already dreading the conference he would be pulled into.  
"Well, lets get this over with" he said. Did he sound like his father? He always asked himself that. While James looked up to his father, he didn't always agree with his methods and could see why people found him arrogant, even if he didn't think so himself.

He fell into step with Mycroft, walking through a grand entrance. He was in awe of the place; it was huge, technologically advanced, and everyone he saw looked intelligent and determined. He understood what had drawn Hamish to making this his way of life. James would think himself _very _lucky if he could fit in here, if only for a short time. This wouldn't be his way of life; he couldn't be a spy. Consulting detective for the MI6? Maybe, and it sounded good. Perhaps too good...

"I believe we're meant to be...here" said Mycroft, looking at the door of a room. They simultaneously walked through the double doors to a large room, with a rectangular glass table in the middle. About twenty people sat around it- there were two seats left at the very front, opposite each other, for Mycroft and James.  
One of the men stood up as they walked in. He was of medium height and build, with sandy blonde hair that was neatly combed into an un-extravagant style. His shoes were polished, his suit clean and ironed. He looked normal. Not easily recognizable. Unassuming. Perfect spy material.  
"This is my nephew, James" Mycroft said, introducing him. The other man extended his arm to James, who shook it.  
"Peter Smith. I'm the new head here"  
"Nice to meet you" said James. So this was his brother's replacement.  
Smith looked at him quizically. "How...old are you?"  
"He's twenty" Mycroft cut in before he had a chance to reply. Twenty? He could pass for eighteen, maybe, but not twenty.  
"Don't worry, I'm older than I look" he said, feeling the need to back Mycroft up.  
Smith nodded. James doubted that he was convinced. "Please, take a seat"  
He sat down opposite Mycroft, and next to a young, intelligent looking woman in a navy blue buisness suit, who hadn't taken her attention off of Smith since James had entered the room. Did she trust him? It didn't seem like it, the way she was watching him.  
Smith was standing at the front; it looked like he was going to give some sort of presentation. James prayed that it would be more interesting than Lestrade's.

"Two days ago, Hamish Holmes was killed by an enemy spy; we still have no idea which country he was from. The only clue we have is one photo, taken by a security camera, of a man dressed in black. He was exiting the building at the time when Holmes was killed and he appears to be carrying a gun. He is assumed to be the killer, though his image matches none of spies that we have on our database"  
Smith picked up a small black remote from the table and pressed a button. The image of the man appeared behind him on a projection screen. James ignored all the information that was coming at him, so that he could study the picture later for whatever he could be missing at that point in time. That was his method, and it worked when he needed to analyze something.  
Smith pushed the button again, and the picture zoomed onto the man's face. Again, James tried to ignore what his senses were telling him.  
"We have employed an expert in deduction to take this case and help us out a bit" Smith said. Every head in the room turned towards James, if only for a second. _No pressure_, he thought to himself.

"Now that the preliminary- rather, only- intelligence is out of the way, I should explain why I have called all of you here today"  
He paused for a moment. "We need to consider how, if at all, the general public will be told. I, personally, think that this should be kept a secret; it would only cause hysteria"

"I disagree" said the woman next to James. "If this causes war, which it may well do, the public should know as early as possible so that they can prepare. Also, it's my belief that the government shouldn't keep secrets from the people it governs. But this is a professional discussion, so I won't be forcing my personal opinions on you all" she finished, with a touch of irony. She _definitely_ didn't trust Smith. James found that he liked her; she was opinionated and headstrong, but that perhaps wasn't a bad thing. It meant that she wasn't easily influenced.

"I think that the public should know of this, but only if war is a certainty" Mycroft put in, looking briefly at the woman.  
James wanted to say something; should he? He was a fifteen- no, twenty year old impermanent spy. Would his opinion be valued? What, he asked himself, would his father do? Well, that was easy.

"I think the public should be told, but only when the spy's origin is confirmed. If the public was told before this, it would cause mass hysteria, excess media speculation, and could possibly trigger war with the spy's country before proper negotiations could begin"  
For a while, no-one said anything. The spies stared at him silently, and James found it difficult to look Smith in the eye and not turn away to the floor or ceiling.

"I agree" said the woman next to him, breaking the silence.

"So do I" said Smith, with conviction.

"And I suppose I do too" said Mycroft, to James's surprise. Around the room there were outbursts of 'I agree' and 'absolutely'. James felt pleased with himself, but tried not to grin; he needed to look adult and professional.

"I suppose that is our plan of action then? Yes? Good" Smith said.  
"Now, any questions?" James listened as people added their input, but didn't say anything else.


	10. Chapter 10- a mind palace of her own

"Can I ask why this is necessary?" James panted. He had been running on a treadmill for forty-five minutes.  
"Every spy has to do this at the start of their career; we nee to see how you would fare in the field" replied an overseer who was standing behind him.  
"Firstly, I'm not a spy, I'm a consulting detective currently employed by MI6" he said, struggling to speak. "Secondly, I don't see how running for forty-five minutes will tell you how efficient I would be as a spy anyway"  
"We need to know how well you can handle physical work. You need to be fit- if you can't handle forty-five minutes of running, you're really not spy material"  
"I am _not_ a spy!"  
The overseer didn't reply.

Fifteen minutes later, James was off the treadmill and holding a gun. He hoped his aim was good; he actually hoped he wouldn't have to shoot anyone during his investigation, if he was honest.

He fired at the target three times; the first shot was too high over the target- the heart on a cardboard cutout- the second was too far to the left. The third, though, was right in the center of the heart. Pleased, James stepped back to repeat the action. His aim was right on, again. He kept moving backwards; even at fifty meters his aim was perfect. He smiled.

Next was the intelligence test; he wasn't worried about this.  
James was asked a series of questions that seemed fairly easy to him. When he finished, he heard the overseer mutter 'extraordinary. Extraordinary'  
James was extremely pleased; he had passed, obviously, and with flying colors.

After the tests, James went home. He hadn't been able to get any work done, but he would tomorrow. _Tomorrow_. He hoped his second day wouldn't be as exhausting as his first. He had flopped down on the sofa as soon as he got in.  
Harriet was out with friends. Shouldn't he be with people of his own age too, instead of spies and Detective Inspectors? He sighed.  
His father- John- walked into the room. He was smiling. Proud.  
"How did it go?"  
"It went great; when the public here about Hamish, MI6 will be following my plan, although I really don't know how I managed that"  
James told his father all about the plan, and how he had done in the tests. He wasn't sure how much he was allowed to say so he kept the information fairly basic and vague. His father didn't comment much but nodded enthusiastically.  
"And you're back there tomorrow to start your real work?"  
"Yeah"  
"Great" his father said, smiling. He _was _proud.  
Less than a minute later, the door opened. Harriet. James got up and walked to the door. He had missed her, because they were so close all of a sudden.  
"James!" she said, smiling. "How was your first day?"  
"It was great!" he said, and then proceeded to tell her much the same information he had told their father. They both walked back through to the living room, where Harriet told him and their father about what she had been doing; shopping, with her two best- and although James didn't know at the time, only- friends. Although it sounded like she had had a good time, he saw that she was hiding something. He would ask her later.  
Their father talked about something funny that had happened to him at work; James laughed at intervals; Harriet laughed more. He realized that he hadn't heard his sister laugh in years. The thought depressed him; had they really been so distant?  
Eventually, when they stopped laughing, James asked where his other father was. His father replied with  
"He's out on a case. He left about an hour ago; he said it was urgent"  
"Oh. Without you?"  
"Like I said, urgent. He rushed out before I had a chance to ask what was going on"  
"Typical"  
"Yeah. But I mean, I was exhausted anyway, after..." he looked at Harriet, who started laughing again.

After a long shower, James felt less exhausted. His father was back- Sherlock- so he told him about what happened. He was proud, too, but James had more important things on his mind; namely, his sister.

He sat on her bed, opposite her. She was smiling, as if to hide what had happened. Why did she feel she had to do that?  
"Harry, you know, you're not the only one who has deductive reasoning. What happened?"  
"I...it's nothing. Don't worry about it"  
"It's not nothing; you're upset"  
Harriet sighed. She was happy that her brother cared, but did he have to pry?  
"I ran into some people from school. They said...some things. Like I said, not important"  
"I can see you're not going to tell me"  
"I'm not"  
"You know I'm here" he said, hugging her "if you ever want to talk"  
"I'm fine. Don't worry about me"  
James walked out of her room.

Harriet sat on her bed and stared at the multiple posters on her wall. Verb posters for the languages she was learning; German, Spanish, French, Italian, Japanese, Mandarin Chinese, Korean. All the grammar and spelling, verbs and nouns, perfect and future tense rules was stored in a cupboard in her mind palace- a memory technique she had learned from her father. It was especially effective for learning languages; she could access the information without trying to recall it, so long as she put it back in the cupboard when she was done with it. She really had no need for the posters; they were just to decorate her room. For other girls it was boy bands and movie stars. For her it was Korean irregular verbs. So what?

Scanning the posters, her eyes stopped on one word. _Rache_. German for revenge. She had put it on a poster when she was feeling particularly resentful of her bullies. She felt that again after what had happened... they had called her names before, but each time it happened the level of hate for them increased. 'Psycho', 'nerd' and 'freak' were common place. 'Fatty', 'bitch', 'slut', 'lezzie', 'unwanted', 'reject', 'teacher's pet', even 'goth' and 'emo' after they had found out about how she used to cut herself... she still had a scar on her wrist, even though it had been a year since she had promised herself _never again_...

She had begun to hide her feelings in the dark corners of her mind palace- tucked away with the memories of countless assaults, both verbal and physical...

She had told her parents, who, in turn had told her teachers. Inside of school it got slightly better; there was nothing they could do about their behavior outside of school...

One summer, before she had her limited number of friends, she finished an A-level maths practice test. It was pinned to her wall, forming a barrier between half a wall of language posters and half a wall of maths and science work. She had always been interested in forensics, it was an interesting subject. Chemistry came naturally; there were multiple periodic tables pinned around her room, along with molecular diagrams and posters explaining chemical from physical reactions. She loved science; it was a shame that it was another thing she was bullied for...  
She kept the memories tucked away in cupboards and corners of her mind palace. She would never have to take them out again.


	11. Chapter 11- Miss Everton

James sat in a waiting area somewhere in MI6. He pulled at his blazer in anxiety; he had no tie to re-do as he had decided against wearing ties. It was less formal. He should want to look _more_ formal, shouldn't he? Maybe. He didn't know. He was nervous; he was waiting for his test results. The navy blue suit he was wearing, somewhat influenced by the woman he had sat next to the day before, fit perfectly and according to his sister, he looked stunning.

The woman who he had just thought of opened the door he was waiting behind.  
"Your results are ready. I have to say, they are extraordinary" she said as James walked through the door. She was wearing a cream business suit, with a black shirt and belt. He stood behind a chair, and sat down when he was told to take a seat. She sat down opposite him, smiling politely.

"Your test results passed- well, more than passed. In the physical assessment, your running was adequate; you scored six out of ten. Your shooting was, well, amazing- nine out of ten. The mental test scores...exceptional. You answered every question correctly- twenty out of twenty. It's the highest score we've ever had. Although you are one of two consulting detectives. Sherlock Holmes is your father?"  
"Adoptive father. My full name is Watson-Holmes" he said, leaving her to fill in the blanks. She nodded.  
"You should consider a career in intelligence, seeing as you are, well, intelligent"  
"I've found my calling. You couldn't tempt me away from being a detective"  
She smiled. "I wanted to be a DI, but I don't like... crime, as such. I came to MI6 instead. I call what I do 'intelligent intelligence'- information processing, evaluation, analystics, the occasional computer hack..."  
"You can hack computers? Is that even legal?!"  
"It is, if no-one finds out" she said, smiling.  
He smiled back. "So, I can get straight to work, Miss...?"  
"Everton. Please, call me Laura"

James sat at a desk. He wasn't completely sure of his whereabouts; he ignored all thoughts and feelings, except those connected to the picture he was staring at. He and Harriet had been taught how to use a mind palace when they were only three or four; it helped him to remember and recall things, but it didn't help him with how he processed information, so he used his own methods.  
The man was fairly tall but slim. He looked tired; he may have been in position with his sniper ready for days, just waiting for Hamish to show up. He was dressed in black; black shirt, black trousers, black shoes. That indicated he was meant to be killing Hamish at some point during the night instead of mid-afternoon, the clothes would have been meant for camoflage.  
His skin was naturally white but he had a tan. He must have been exposed to the sun before he got to London; he couldn't have got a tan _in_ London, as the weather hadn't been remotely sunny for the past two weeks. A hot country...well, it was a start. Not a very good start; he had almost no evidence. Non had been found in the abandoned warehouse Hamish was found in. James was fairly convinced he would find some- or at least develop a theory- if he went there himself.

He left the one picture on his desk and walked out of the small glass-walled office; his office, for the time he was there. He needed to find Smith; he would probably need some kind of clearance to go and investigate the crime scene. Eventually he got to Smith's office; it was large- huge- and was filled with everything he might need- a laptop, a tablet, a projection screen, multiple filing cabinets, a phone, even- for some reason- an iPod dock. James was envious of him, although none of what he had would help him, except the laptop, which he had; it would be a distraction.

Smith was sitting behind his desk. He looked up from whatever work he was doing.  
"Yes?"  
"I need clearance to investigate the warehouse"  
"Why?"  
"To look for evidence"  
"Our experts have done that already"  
"The experts could have missed something" said James, frustrated.  
"I doubt it. Look, James, you're an amateur. A kid. Can't you trust the professionals?"  
"I am _not_ an amateur; I'm fairly sure you wouldn't be consulting me if I was. And no, I _can't_ trust the professionals."  
"James, I'm not going to let you poke about in a crime scene because you think you're more qualified than trained professionals"  
"Do you want me to solve this case or not?!" James said, almost laughing.  
"Yes, although I don't belive for a second that you can. Mycroft is an idiot, dragging a kid into MI6 and expecting him to solve a murder"  
"I'll prove you wrong"  
"I look forward to seeing you try"  
"Sarcasm isn't good on you"  
"It wasn't sarcasm; I want to see you fail"  
"Charming" James said, as he stormed out of the room. He walked; he didn't know where he was going, but he needed to clear his head. Make a plan. He was still going to the warehouse, of course. He just needed to work out how to get in. Any normal member of MI6 would have clearance, right? He needed someone to get him in. He couldn't ask Mycroft, he would only disapprove. That only left one person...

"I need you to hack a computer for me"  
"Why would I do that?"  
"Because you're desperate to see some action. You've been doing paperwork for a year or more now; you're bored. You want to have some _fun_!"  
Laura sighed. How did he know these things?  
"Who's computer?"  
"Smith's" he said, watching the smile grow on her face. Oh, she hated him. Enough to risk losing her job.  
"What do you need me to do?"  
"Give me clearance for visiting the crime scene"  
"I could do that anyway"  
"Oh..."  
"But it would be so much more fun to hack him, don't you think?"  
"Oh, I think so"  
They beamed at eachother; instant trust. James was surprised- the woman had seemed like she didn't trust anyone. He was right, she didn't; except for James.

_If you decide to review this chapter (which I hope you do), would you mind telling me something_?  
**_If you were going to ship Laura and James, how would you ship them? Friendship ship or relationship ship?_**

**_Thanks, LS :)_**


	12. Chapter 12- a plan

_Ready to initiate phase one? LE_  
_If you are JH_  
_Ready LE_  
James looked around the corner to see Laura knocking on the door of Smith's office. She had some papers to give him; it was a liable excuse for a distraction, she did actually have some paperwork due. After about a minute, Smith opened the door.

"Mr. Smith, sir, I have paperwork to give you. Just a minute, I'll check it's all here"  
James heard Smith sigh as she rummaged through the papers. When she got to the last one she stopped, feigned confusion, and checked again.  
"I...I seem to be missing one of the more important papers. I should go back for it. Oh, and Holmes needs to see you, sir. He can't leave his office, it's rather urgent. He made it clear that you should come as quickly as possible"  
"That idiot- I'm the head of MI6! Doesn't he know I'm busy?"  
"I think you'll want to hear what he has to say, sir"  
"It better be good. Tell him I'll be ten minutes, if you can get a hold of him"  
"Yes, sir"  
_Ten minutes_! How were they going to pull it off?!  
Laura headed in James's direction.  
"What are we going to do?!" he said, anxious.  
"Well, I'm going to hope I'm a good liar and 'search' for the papers. I think you should probably look busy, maybe start to write up a theory for the sake of looking professional"  
James nodded. It seemed feasible. They walked down a hallway. It didn't look suspicious. What could be more innocent than two colleagues walking together?  
"What are you going to tell him?" Laura asked over the click- clack of her heels on the polished floor.  
"The only real leads I've got; that Hamish should have been killed at night"  
"I don't understand why everyone thinks it was a spy from another country"  
"It's what I've been told. I mean I'm skeptical, but I don't see why anyone British would kill Hamish- or hire someone to kill him"  
"Money. Power. Religion. Love"  
"I guess...I should work this out myself. I'm too gullible"  
Laura didn't reply. They walked in silence the rest of the way. James got to his office.  
"Good luck" said Laura. James looked at her; she was pretty. Large dark eyes, a small nose covered with a dusting of freckles. Strangely familiar...  
"Thanks. Good luck 'finding your paper'" he said, smiling. She smiled back. Her teeth were perfect, her lips looked soft and smooth... why did he feel he had known her for years?  
He turned into his office, mystified. He didn't know any Evertons, but she looked so...familiar. Her face was part of his childhood...

He pushed Laura into some room in his mind palace, and focused on looking busy. He had about ten minutes. He could start a report, maybe annotate the picture...?  
James began to search his office for a pen. He could write a report on his laptop, he supposed. _Boring_. He wished he had a gun so he could shoot one of the walls. Or better yet, Smith.

He had to do something; he couldn't let Laura down. She could loose her job if he didn't get over his boredom and _do something_. Ugh.

Reluctantly, he opened a word document. His writing was crap. Really terrible. His best grade in English was a -B. Should he make notes? Write an essay? He breathed out heavily.  
_I think that the murder was meant to be committed some time at night because the spy is wearing black clothes. He looks tired, which means that he could have been in position for da_  
James stopped typing as his brain started to work. The spy had expected Hamish to be there at night; he didn't get any sleep because he was waiting for him to arrive. He shot Hamish when he arrived- late. Why had Hamish been late?  
James wrote all of his thoughts down. A minute later, he heard Smith talking to someone outside of his office.  
_Phase_ read the text he had sent to Laura. He didn't have time for anything else. He was putting his phone away as Smith barged into the room. Apparently etiquette doesn't apply to you if you're the head of MI6.

"This had better be good" Smith said.  
"Oh, it is" said James. He smiled genuinely, thinking of how Smith's computer was being hacked at that very moment. "I've got a starting point. The man; he was dressed in black"  
"I'm not blind, Holmes, I can see that"  
James sighed. "Yes, you see, but you don't _observe_. Now, why would he be wearing black? To look less noticeable at night. Except it wasn't night, it was the afternoon. Hamish was meant to be there the night before, but he was late; that explains why the spy looked so tired"  
"And how does this help?"  
"It doesn't, unless you let me at  
some things; Hamish's phone, an address book maybe?"  
Smith looked at him. "I'll see what I can get sorted for you. You should be grateful"  
"I am. Thank you. I also wanted to ask some questions, for general information that might help with the case"  
"I'm not going to disclose information"  
"Sir, please-"  
"No, Holmes. You're _not_ a spy, no matter how hard you try to look like it"  
"I thought you wanted this case solved"  
"That doesn't mean that I am liberated of my responsibilities. Now, if you don't mind, I've got work to do" Smith said, as he left. Had Laura had enough time to hack his computer?  
She said it would only take two minutes maximum. It would take another three at least for Smith to get back to his office, even if he sprinted. James breathed a sigh of relief; their plan had went accordingly. He really couldn't thank Laura enough. He was so glad that he hadn't messed up and made her loose her job.  
_Success. A paper is left on his desk so he doesn't get suspicious. I've altered your permissions. Full clearance to investigate crime scenes and handle evidence LE_  
_Great. Can't thank you enough JH_  
James got out of his chair, shut down his laptop, and left his office. He needed to go and see Laura and thank her properly. Arriving at her office, he wasn't sure what to say. He knocked on the door, oddly nervous. Why was he nervous?  
"Come in" Laura called. James pushed open the door and walked through.  
"I wanted to thank you properly. You really had no obligation to help me and you hardly know me"  
"What was the saying? The enemy of my enemy is my friend?"  
That was conclusive evidence, if James needed it, that Laura and Smith hated each other.  
"How did you manage to hack the laptop?"  
"Well, it was password protected, but that really wan't a problem. I have this thing called a mind palace- my mother told me about it, she has a friend that uses it- I can recall any information I want, it's never really forgotten, just lost, all you have to do is look for it. I searched for information on Smith- family, friends, relationships. The word that seemed most likely to be his password was 'Lucy'- the name of his wife. It worked"  
"I have a mind palace too- my father taught me how to use it" James said, looking at Laura. Her eyes, so familiar. Could her mother be a friend of his father? The freckles. The light brown hair, pulled into a bun... "Molly" he said quietly, more to himself than Laura, but she heard him anyway.  
"I was wondering when you would catch up" she said, smiling.  
"I...wow. But...you're an Everton, not a Hooper"  
"My parents are divorced; I kept my father's name but my mum changed back to Hooper, although I was living with her"  
"But...Molly's younger than my parents. You could only be about eighteen at most"  
"Seventeen. I lied about my age when I was fifteen so that I could join MI6"  
"I'm...only fifteen" James said, feeling he should tell her. She looked surprised.  
"I didn't think you looked twenty, but...fifteen? You could easily be eighteen"  
"That's what I was going to say, but Mycroft decided I was twenty"  
They both smiled. And from that moment on, they were inseparable.


	13. Chapter 13- Ophidiophobia

"So what exactly are we looking for?" asked Laura as they sat in the back of the taxi.  
"Anything. Everything. Nothing in particular" James replied.  
"Well, that's helpful"  
James shrugged. He wasn't sure what to say.  
"Won't this be upsetting? You know, visiting the place where your brother was killed"  
"I hadn't thought about it, to be honest. I just hope I find something really promising, or I'll be giving Smith a really good opportunity to fire me"  
"Like you haven't already" Laura said, smiling at him. God, she was pretty; and exactly like Molly. James almost blushed. "What, am I putting you off?" she said, laughing, as if she could read his mind.  
"Oh, no. I'm fine. It's just...the heat" he said, feeling embarrassed  
"What, so it really won't affect you if I do...this?" she said, running her hand down his arm.  
"Nope" lied James. "Not at all"  
Laura laughed lightly. She stopped teasing after that. James_ did_ find her attractive, but they were just friends. Colleagues. Partners in solving crime. That was the most they could be. Although he couldn't deny that he would happily have more.  
They arrived at the crime scene. An official asked for ID from both of them, which he ran into a machine. It qualified, thanks to Laura. They stepped into the warehouse. The concrete floor had an ugly blood stain on it not far from where they were standing. James avoided it, knowing who's it was.  
He stood in the middle of the room, gazing at the windows. He needed to determine whether the spy had been in the building or not. It looked like he hadn't been; one of the windows was smashed. He dragged over a chair from the side of the room and stood on it. He still wasn't level with the smashed window.  
"Laura!" he shouted. She was standing across the room taking measurements, as he had asked her to.  
"What?"  
"I need two chairs!"  
She dragged the chairs across the room. He stacked them and stood on top of it. He still wasn't level with the window.  
"Get three more chairs; stack two and pass me one"  
"I'm not your housekeeper!"  
He laughed. "Alright, _please_"  
She dragged the chairs over and stacked two, handing him the other. He stepped on the new stack and put the other chair on the stack James had been standing on. He stepped onto it, finally level with the window.  
He scanned the view for another building with a smashed window; a library.  
Ready to get down, he looked at the floor. It seemed miles away, but then he remembered his 'high speed chase' through the forest and jumped.  
He landed awkwardly on his ankle, but not wanting to show Laura that he was hurt, walked around for a bit. It felt a _little_ bit better.  
So there was one question he still aimed to answer; if he shot Hamish from the library, how did he get his aim right? Hamish would have had to be standing on the stacked chairs like James was. And why was the spy seen leaving the warehouse?  
It was a very well thought out killing. How had they managed to get Hamish to stand on the stack of chairs without even being in the same building? Unless he had an accomplice, which was unlikely.

James, lost in his own thoughts, didn't see what was happening to Laura.  
"_JAMES!_"he heard her scream. Her face was a mask of fear as she looked at the ten foot _something _that was slithering towards her.  
"Oh shit, get on a chair!" he shouted, before he realized his mistake. "Crouch! The sniper!"  
Laura crouched down, still standing on the chair. There were another _five_ snakes coming towards him, and he hadn't had time to get on a chair. He tried to run, but his ankle was still bad. He felt a sharp bite on his foot- luckily the snake couldn't quite penetrate the leather.

"James, get on the chair!" Screamed Laura. There was a chair about three feet away from him. Laura was closer, but the first snake was circling the metal legs of the chair so he couldn't get to her. All he could see in her face was panic and fear- for her and for him. She wasn't far from tears.  
James reached for the chair and dragged it closer, using it to bat off a snake that had lunged at his thigh, ready to bite. Laura was crouching but still screaming his name. There was nothing he could do to comfort her, he knew that.

"Stay down! What ever you do, don't stand up!"  
"Why?!"  
"The sniper!" he shouted, not having to explain further.  
"What are we going to do?!"  
"I don't know! Just stay calm and _stay down_!"  
She nodded frantically. And then James realized; they weren't alone.  
"HELP! HELP!" He shouted over and over again, hoping the guard would hear him. He didn't- he was on a coffee break.  
Laura really was crying now, a silent tear rolling down her cheek.  
"We're going to die!"  
"Calm down! We're not going to die unless we stand up!" James shouted, hoping that the snakes couldn't climb up chair legs somehow. He took his phone out of his pocket and called Mycroft.  
"Hello?"  
"I'm in a warehouse. Snakes. Snipers. Need help"  
"James, calm down and explain the situation properly. What's going on?"  
"I'm in the warehouse where Hamish was killed. We were investigating- me and Laura Everton- there was a snake, we stood on chairs, but that's how Hamish was killed- I'll explain later. Just get your people the _fuck_ here, and tell them to bring guns. I have to go"  
"James, wa-"  
He hung up, and looked down at the floor. A snake was coiling its self around the leg of his chair.


	14. Chapter 14- ophidiophobia pt 2

_**This chapter's a bit...gory. If you like snakes, you probably shouldn't read**__ it..._

"James...I think you should find another chair. Quickly" Laura said, shaking. He couldn't mistake the fear in her voice.  
James scanned the room, looking frantically for a chair. He couldn't see one close enough to risk getting off the chair he was on. There was one near Laura but he didn't want to ask her to do anything...risky. He wanted to keep her safe. He reminded himself that she was in danger because of him anyway.  
"Laura, throw me a chair"  
"James, I can't reach it"  
"I- I know. I wouldn't ask you do this for me but if I try myself I'll die"  
"O-Okay"  
James watched painfully as Laura hurled herself from the safety of her chair and grabbed another, holding it protectively. After a minute's hesitation, she grabbed another and jumped onto the chair she was on before, hurling the surplus chairs after her. She threw one of them at James, who caught it, placed it on the ground and jumped onto it.  
"What've you got a spare chair for?"  
"To kill the snakes!"  
"Don't do anything rash!"  
She didn't reply. A snake came within close range of them; she slammed the chair leg down on it's head. Dead- it's skull was smashed. There was a lot of blood, but James wasn't squeamish. He was just glad that it wasn't his or Laura's. He really didn't want to kill the snakes either, but it was them or him and Laura.  
One snake down, five to go. He hoped Mycroft's people arrived soon to finish them off.  
James picked up the chair he was on earlier, the snake still on it, and flicked it violently. The snake hit the wall. It was dead, or at least too stunned to move for a while. Four to go.  
Laura slammed the chair down on another snake 's head. Halfway there.  
James gritted his teeth and pushed the chair down on a snake, flinching as he heard a crunch of bone. Two left. A second later, the door was blown off it's hinges as a squad of leather-suited men stormed into the building. Mycroft's people. Good timing. One of them shot a snake in the head, another crushing the last snake with some kind of pole. Laura and James hopped down from the chairs, finally able to stand up fully. He ran across the room and grabbed her by the shoulders, keeping her alert.  
"Are you okay? Not hurt?"  
"I'm fine"  
"No snake bites? Laura!"  
"James, I said I was fine!"  
He looked at her. There were grey teartracks on her cheeks because of her mascara had ran. Her lips quivered and her eyes were filled with shock. She was okay physically, but not mentally.  
He hugged her without saying anything.

* * *

A long hug, several mugs of tea and a caring John Watson later, Laura really was fine.  
"You're an ophidiophobe then?" asked Harriet. She already idolized Laura.  
"If I wasn't, I am now" she replied, making an effort to smile. As they talked, James evaluated the information he had gathered. The sniper shot from the library. He put snakes in the warehouse to get Hamish to stand on a chair. The spy must have went to the warehouse to check that Hamish was dead and sort the snakes out. Laura had James had been targeted and escaped, narrowly. He found it hard to cope with the thought that there had been an assassination attempt on him. It had been somewhat...unnerving. Either he had been targeted because he was taking the case, or the spy was targeting Holmes's rather that figureheads. He would just have to wait and see.  
Half an hour later, he made a call to Lestrade.  
"Hello?"  
"I've got some evidence in connection with Hamish's killing and I need to analyze it. Can I use Scotland Yard facilities?"  
"Yes, of course. See you there?"  
"Yeah, see you"  
He hung up. At least _someone_ was on his side.

The next day, having analyzed one of the dead snake's blood, DNA and venom, James's results showed that the snakes were from China. It wasn't conclusive evidence that the spy- who was probably a paid assassin rather than an _actual_ spy- was from China, but it made sense. It was a hot country.  
Feeling good about having some useful evidence, James caught the tube to the MI6 base. Smith didn't know about what he and Laura had done, thankfully. He just needed to speak to him without making him suspicious. That could be harder than making it out of that warehouse alive.


	15. Chapter 15- catching an assassin

Having told Smith what he knew, James was hard at work tracking down the assassin, who he assumed to be in London still. He wasn't sure if he should ask Laura to come with him, not wanting to put her in danger again, but she found him and forced him to take her. Besides, she spoke basic Chinese, which could help.  
The first place they went was the library. It was abandoned and run-down, all the books cleared out. It would have been locked, but obviously it had been broken into. James doubted the assassin would be there, but they could look for evidence. They both had a gun, to be safe.  
There was an eerie silence as they crept through the decrepit library. It was dark; James hit the light switch, but the floodlights flickered and died.  
He saw a movement in the dull light, but dismissed it as his eyes playing tricks on him. Something moved again at the other side of the room. He signaled to Laura to stay quiet. They both froze. They stood completely still for ten minutes or more, trying to see what was moving and where it was.  
Something moved behind Laura. It was distinctly man-shaped. James grabbed her hand and pulled her closer to him, just as something- rather, someone- lunged at her. He crashed past her, falling into James. Even in the dim light, he could see that it was the same man as the man in the photograph.  
"Call Smith!" James shouted. "And tell Mycroft to watch the security cameras around the library!"  
Laura took out her phone as James tried to restrain the assassin. He had him pinned to the floor but the man lifted his arm to punch James in the side of the head. The blow made him momentarily dizzy, and the assassin jumped out of the smashed window and onto the flat roof of the next building.  
"Stay here!" he told Laura, taking off his blazer but keeping his phone and gun, ready to chase the assassin.  
He vaulted the window ledge, flying through the air and landing shakily on the concrete roof. He immediately sprinted after the man; he was still in sight, thankfully. He was a lot faster running on concrete than running on a muddy path, but the assassin could sprint for England...or China. And he didn't seem to be tiring as he leaped off the edge of the roof, landing awkwardly on the pavement below, although he wasn't hurt. It was a good fifteen-foot drop. James wasn't sure if he could do it; he had never liked heights, but falling was worse. He took a deep breath and jumped, feeling heavy as he dropped to the Earth, deciding that he hated gravity. He landed about a meter in front of a middle-aged man who was pushing his bike along beside him.  
"I need to borrow that bike"  
"You what?"  
"I said I need to borrow that bike! MI6, look" he said, taking his ID card out of his back pocket. The man nodded and gave him his bike. James jumped onto it and peddled after the assassin, who was miles ahead of him. He pushed through people in the street, yelling 'sorry!' behind him. He was catching up to the assassin, but had to abandon the bike when he took a turn through a grassy patch which backed onto a cul de sac. The assassin ran straight through it, which was a mistake, as Lestrade and a line of police cars were waiting at the exit. How Lestrade had got there in time with an entire squad of policemen, how he even_ knew what was going on_, James didn't know, but he was immensely grateful.  
The assassin stopped, looking for somewhere to run. He ran at James, thinking he could tackle him and get away; he punched the assassin in the stomach.  
"That was for trying to kill me" he said as the man doubled over "That was for putting Laura and me in a warehouse full of snakes" he said, boxing the man in the chin as he tried to stand up "And _that_," he said as he kicked the man as hard as he could in the crotch "was for killing my brother".  
He was met with a satisfying _oof_ as the man collapsed onto the floor. James should have felt bad; but then, this was the man who had killed his brother. _He_ should be the one feeling bad. There was a spray of blood on his knuckles, probably from the assassin's nose. He wanted to go further, do more, _kill_ the idiot; he didn't, he forced himself to stop. He couldn't kill him, he needed more evidence. That was amazingly cold of him. He didn't not kill the man because of his morals, he didn't kill the man because he needed him in order to get leads. He congratulated himself mockingly; he really was like his father. That is exactly how he would feel. No matter how much affection he had for his father, he was still a sociopath. Was James a sociopath? He loved Laura, he realized. He couldn't be. But Sherlock loved John... he had three kids, he was proud when they passed their secondary school entry tests, he was proud when Hamish took his job at MI6 no matter how much he resented Mycroft, he was proud when James solved his first case, he was proud when Harriet got offered the boarding school place, he played the violin, he cried when his eldest son was killed...still human. James was human, maybe a sociopath, maybe a psychopath, maybe a genius, maybe a mix of all four. Good and bad were only words.  
James felt a hand on his shoulder and realized that there were tears rolling down his cheeks.  
"You okay, James?" Lestrade said softly.  
"Yeah, yeah, I-I'm fine" he lied, brushing his tears away aggressively. How could be be fine?  
How would he ever be fine again?


	16. Chapter 16- Lestrade's last resort

Lestrade had tried to get the assassin to talk; he had got Anderson to try, Sally to try, Dimmock to try, Mycroft to try, he even asked Sherlock and John to try. That only left one person who could possibly get the assassin to talk to him. James. Lestrade hadn't wanted to put him through more pain, but _someone_ had to do it. If it had to be James there was nothing he could do. He seemed okay with it.

James was actually pretty nervous, and was afraid of what he might do if he was left in a room alone with the assassin. But he would be behind one-way glass. It was okay. He couldn't do any serious damage.  
He walked into the room. The assassin watched him, lifting his head slowly. There was a hidden camera in the corner, and probably audio recording equipment somewhere in the room.  
"Hello, Shaun" said James. No reply.  
"If you ever want out of here, you're going to have to talk to me. I'm the only person left who you _can_ talk to. You ignored everyone else, even my father. That must have taken some willpower. He tends to have ways of making people speak to him" he said. No reply. Again. James stared at the assassin- Shaun -in the hope of intimidating him. It didn't work.  
"Which country hired you to kill my brother?" James asked. He didn't respond.  
"Which country, Shaun? I have a feeling it was China. I could be wrong. I could be right. If you don't tell me," he said, tilting his head "I could ask the Chinese government. I'd tell them you gave them away. That wouldn't be good for you, would it? What would they do? Torture you? _Kill_ you? It would be a lot easier for you to talk to me than face your employers when they think you betrayed them. So? What will it be?"  
The man looked at James. "It was China, yeah. That's all I'm gonna say."  
"American. Interesting."  
Shaun shrugged. He had dark rings under his eyes. He had refused to sleep.  
"Why you?"  
Shaun didn't reply.  
"You're not an idiot, Shaun. You killed the head of MI6 without even being in the same building as him. You almost killed me. It was a mistake that you let me get away because now I know how you did it, but that doesn't mean you're stupid. So just answer my questions"  
Shaun stared at James blankly.  
"If you won't listen to reason, then you might listen to threats. I will tell the Chinese government you betrayed them unless you answer my questions. There's nothing I won't tell them_ because you killed my brother_. Do you understand?"  
Shaun lifted his head and nodded.  
"Right. Why were you hired?"  
"The Chinese like me. They knew I'd killed before, and well. They needed someone who wasn't Chinese, so they asked me"  
"How much were you paid?"  
"Six million yuan, nearly a million dollars"  
Extortionate.  
"Why did they want to kill Ha- the head of MI6?"  
Shaun didn't reply. James sighed. "Don't make me threaten you again"  
"I'm sorry, okay? They said I'd be killed if I told anyone why"  
"You'll be killed if you don't"  
"I'm loyal"  
"You're an idiot"  
Shaun stared at James furiously. He hated him for putting him in this position.  
"They wanted to kill him to distract... to distract MI6 from the real problem"  
The real problem? What?  
"That's all I'm gonna say"  
"Are you sure?"  
"I've told you enough to work out what's happened, if you're half as clever as you think you are"  
James stood up.  
"Thank you for seeing sense, at last. Goodbye, Shaun. I hope I never see you again, because I have a funny feeling that if I do I'll kill you"  
"Not if I kill you first. Watch your back, Mr. Holmes. If I don't, someone will. Eventually"


	17. Chapter 17- tea and poison

_**Heey guys :3  
Sorry for the update delay. I love this fic like a child but it's not as popular as my others, so it kinda has to take a backseat. Sorry :(**_

_**Anyway, it's not dead, it's very much alive. Enjoy, and sorry again :)  
-LS**_

The real problem...  
The real problem? What was that meant to mean? Ugh. James hated cryptic people. They were boring and predictable, even though they had convinced themselves they weren't. He sounded like Sherlock. _A lot_ like Sherlock.  
Laura had no idea what the 'real problem' was- neither did either of his fathers or Harriet. Maybe the assassin had lied to him... He didn't know. He didn't know...  
It was driving him mad. He couldn't eat, he couldn't sleep. He basically lived in MI6, his office a mess of notes and coffee cups. Smith bothered him on a regular basis, thinking the son of the brilliant Sherlock Holmes would have cracked this _simple _case in a matter of days. One more visit and the MI6 head would be leaving with a broken nose. He hated him. He hated him and didn't trust him. No-one did. No-one did...  
_He_ could be the real problem. It would explain why he wouldn't give James clearance to visit crime scenes and kept checking for evidence. It had been like he was paranoid.  
James needed to get this sorted- what if Smith was a Chinese spy? What kind of information could he be leaking? He had to do something, but if he accused Smith of anything he would be thrown out of MI6 with no chance of finishing the case. His brother's death would go unnoticed...  
That was it. That was how he would get Smith to reveal his identity. Direct threats had got Shaun to talk; maybe indirect threats would work on Smith.

"Are you absolutely certain?"  
"Yes, sir. It has to be China. All the evidence points towards that answer and it's what the assassin told me"  
Smith looked worried.  
"Someone will make a public announcement."  
He said. James nodded.  
"Tea?" asked Smith.  
"Yes please. Milk, one sugar"  
What was he going to do? Poison him? Smith turned around, pouring tea from a machine into two mugs.  
_Distract Smith. Asap. JH_ read the text he sent to Laura. He switched his phone off just as Smith turned and sat down. James had to wait for Laura before he drank anything.  
"I was considering a permanent job here. Would that be suitable?" James lied, stalling for time. Smith was just about answer, when there was a knock on the door. Laura opened it.  
"Do you have a minute, sir?"  
"Yes. I'll be right back, James"  
As soon as Smith was out of the door, James switched the teas round. Smith's was black- James added milk to it so he would think he made two whites by mistake and, if the tea _was _poisoned, only James would know which drink contained the poison.  
Smith entered the room, smiling falsely. He sat and took a sip of his tea.  
"Oh, this is pretty sweet. I think I might...have yours" he said, looking worriedly at the cup.  
"In future, _don't_ try to poison me" James said, smirking, as Smith tried to regurgitate the tea. "I hope the poison isn't deadly, _sir_"

* * *

Laura couldn't stop laughing as James described Smith being poisoned by his own tea. It was a bit of a creepy thing for her to be in hysterics over, but Smith _had _deserved it- for betraying his country and for trying to poison James. He couldn't laugh, though, not when he was so nervous. A TV broadcast would be made announcing Hamish's death and that the assassin was employed by the Chinese government. God only knew how _they_ would react. James could be dead by the following morning, all it would take is a strategically placed sniper. Snakes wouldn't even be necessary.  
James realized that he was only fifteen and his imminent death was a considerable possibility. And he liked it. He liked it a lot.


End file.
